


The Swear Jar Project

by alexaprilgarden



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Enthusiastic Consent, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Humour, John is a Bit Not Good, M/M, Slow Burn, Swearing, Virgin Sherlock, everyone ships it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 13:24:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6856780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexaprilgarden/pseuds/alexaprilgarden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John swears too much. Sherlock decides to do something about that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Swear Jar Project

**Author's Note:**

  * For [solitaerbiene](https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitaerbiene/gifts).



> Many, many thanks to asolitarybee for being the most wonderful cheerleader and for all her support, brainstorming and helping me out with good lines and to too_selin for being a very thorough beta reader. I'd be lost without you, girls.
> 
> This is my first fic. English is not my native language.  
> I've had a lot of fun writing it, so... I just hope you will have a lot of fun reading it.

It is Thursday night or, more probably, the very early hours of Friday morning. John has lost track of time. Still dark outside and freezing cold, too cold for London in late march. Sherlock has solved several annoyingly dull small cases he merely accepted to have something to do, and now they are examining an exhausting murder whose solution seemed to stretch endlessly. Ever since John has moved back to Baker Street a few weeks ago, he has taken a lot of extra shifts at the clinic, so he is over-worked and even more tired than he would usually be at this hour of the night. While Sherlock explains to Lestrade how the victim has been slowly poisoned with his own toothpaste and ended up in this abandoned ship yard, John actually tries to figure out what was the last proper thing he had eaten and when.  
  
His fingers are so cold they hurt. When Sherlock is finally done with Lestrade, John isn’t only exhausted and on low blood sugar, but in an exceptionally bad mood, bordering miserable, actually - as he is most of the time these days. So when they are about to leave the crime scene and John trips over a bag of equipment from Anderson’s men, he shouts a tirade of swearing that makes the entire NSY team turn their heads.  
  
“Oh, don’t you have _fucking_ anything to do? Damn it, just stop staring! Idiots!” he spits out when he looks into at least ten astonished faces. Including Sherlock’s – he looks even a bit taken aback, although he of all people should be well acquainted with John’s swearing.  
  
“Sherlock, he’s often like that since he’s come home, isn’t he? God, that’s got to change or his temper will give him a heart attack one day. Or gastric ulcer, at the very least.” Lestrade sighs.  
“You might be right,” Sherlock says, recalling the information he has on men at John’s age and the correlation of PTSD and cardiac arrests. “But what could I possibly do about it?” Even though swearing has always been a habit of John’s, it did get a bit out of control recently.  
  
“Oh, I don’t know, make him pay into a swear jar each time he says something like that.”  
“A swear jar? Explain.”  
  
  
\---  
  
  
The next day, as they sit at the kitchen table having a very late breakfast, after having slept eleven hours in a row, John sips at his coffee. He grimaces as he swallows the beverage and takes a small bite off his toast. Sherlock watches him for a moment.  
  
“John. We should have a swear jar.” John stops chewing.  
  
“What?”  
  
“A swear jar, John. Whenever one of us swears, he has to pay some money into the swear jar.”  
  
“There will be no such thing like a bloody fucking swear jar, Sherlock.”  
  
“John, that’s five quid now.”  
  
“Five? Are you out of your goddamn mind?”  
  
“That makes it ten, John.”  
  
Sherlock gets up in a swirl of dressing gown and long legs to fetch one of their mugs from the cupboard and puts it onto the table with a clang. He looks at John, holds his gaze without a blink.  
“Ten. Now.”  
  
John looks a bit angry, looks as if he was about to say (shout?) something, but yet he breathes deeply, sighs and seems to give the whole idea a second thought.  
  
“And what would be the use of such a thing?”  
  
Interesting, Sherlock thinks, it seems to start working. “Oh. You swear too much. Apart from the shocking effect on innocent -“  
  
“You never cared a for even second any effect anything you say has on“ – John obviously swallows a curse – “ _anyone_. Not a day in your life. So. What. Is. This. About.”  
  
“If you’re always so angry, you’ll get high blood pressure, possibly leading to cardiac problems – especially given the fact that you are in a high risk group due to your PTSD disorder – not to mention the long-term effects on your gastroenterological system which will cause you a lot of pain and discomfort resulting in even more anger and thus more swearing, an even higher blood pressure and so on. Just to mention a few effects. The way you pull a face when you drink your coffee or have chips proves you might already be experiencing the early stages of gastric ulcer. So, all in all, it would make life much less pleasurable for me.”  
  
“For you? _For you?_ Christ, whatever. And for how long is this supposed to go on? And what would we do with the money?”  
  
“I thought six months should be a good time for a start. And as for the money, well, haven’t given it a lot of thought exactly… I could…” He pauses, thinks. “John, we really need a stainless steel dissecting table, some samples require to be dissected fresh from the fridge.”  
  
John stares at him.  
  
“If we exchanged the kitchen table for a slightly smaller one, they might actually both fit into the kitchen.”  
  
“THAT. Is NOT happening. As long. As I. _BLOODY_ live here.”  
  
Sherlock points at the jar. “Fifteen.”  
  
John sighs. After fiddling a twenty pound note out of his jeans pocket and surrendering to that new experiment of Sherlock’s, he looks at his half-eaten toast, then absentmindedly puts his left hand on his stomach and rubs it a bit. “Well then, Sherlock, here’s twenty, but keep in mind that I’ve got another one free.”  
  
  
\---  
  
  
Later that day, when John comes home from Tesco’s, he looks into the living room and finds Sherlock in his chair, reading one of John’s medical journals.  
  
“Sherlock, ah… one question. About. That Jar thing.”  
  
“Yes?” Sherlock looks up from the journal.  
  
“Do I really have to pay every time I swear?”  
  
“Every time.”  
  
“And five quid, every time.”  
  
“Yep.”  
  
“Oh Christ, Sherlock, that’s going to ruin me in a fucking week…” John chokes. Sherlock points at the jar on the kitchen table without saying another word. John clenches his hands, stares at the ceiling in open disbelief, sighs, turns abruptly and leaves the room. “Had one free, remember?”  
  
  
\---  
  
  
Throughout the next few days, John forgets about the swear jar again. Sherlock doesn’t. He reminds John every single time he loses his temper and quickly, the mug is quite filled with notes and coins. They debate about where to draw the line between swearing and ‘just expressing things very bluntly’, finally settle some on sort of agreement neither of them really is ok with, but life is going on. Sherlock notices that John tries to find other vocabulary. Even Lestrade picks up on it when the two of them examine a body the following week. A corpse has been washed to the banks of the Thames, but the water erased almost all traces. John’s annoyance about this fact is tangible, but he doesn’t say as much as, “I _unfortunately_ can’t say anything other than that he’s dead, Greg. Molly has to check him properly in St Bart’s.” Sherlock raises an eyebrow and Greg nods approvingly in Sherlock’s direction in reply.  
  
John actually talks quite a bit less those days. He seems to… think more. About what? Maybe about his anger in general, Sherlock hopes. Either way, John is a lot on Sherlock’s mind, even more than usual.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
Sherlock lifts his head from the microscope and looks towards the living room, listening. Something has changed. It’s John’s breathing. John is lying on the sofa, now fast asleep. That has changed. He has come home from the clinic just fifteen minutes earlier, after doing some extra-hours. Sherlock didn’t quite notice when he entered the flat, not even when John called him, then saw him in the kitchen, completely absorbed in his work, and so John just took off shoes and coat and shuffled to the sofa, too tired to even bother thinking about what to eat for dinner. So when Sherlock notices John’s presence and his exhaustion, he tiptoes to the sofa, puts a blanket over John’s body and stands there for a few moments. Watching John. As he is asleep, the lines around his mouth and between his eyebrows that have grown deeper and deeper over the last year look softer.  
  
“You shouldn’t only swear less, John Watson. You should worry less. What are you still so worried about?”, Sherlock whispers, more to himself really. He watches John’s chest rise and fall with the slow, steady rhythm of his breath.  
  
John shudders, his features tense as he dreams. Without quite knowing why or even consciously deciding to do so, Sherlock bows down and puts his hand onto John’s shoulder. John calms and relaxes and Sherlock feels the warmth of John’s body radiating through his shirt. Without taking his hand away, Sherlock sits down on the floor besides the sofa. He watches over John’s sleep, touching him, as dusk sets in and the shadows grow deeper in 221b. Eventually, after a long time when darkness has fallen completely, Sherlock’s eyelids become heavy. He leans onto the sofa, rests his head somewhere between the sofa leather and John’s hipbone. And falls asleep.  
  
“Hey? ...Sherlock?“ John’s voice is still rough from sleep. Sherlock opens his eyes, blinks. John looks puzzled. “What are you doing here? ... God, must’ve fallen asleep... Time is it?“  
  
It takes Sherlock a moment until he is fully awake. He sits up straight and carefully, slowly withdraws his hand from John’s shoulder - maybe he just hasn’t notice, has he -, runs his fingers through his hair and glimpses through the living room windows, but he can’t tell the time. He gets up, stumbles a bit and gets his phone out of his pocket.  
  
“You were sleeping, too?“ John asks.  
  
“Must have. A bit. It’s... half past ten. Hungry?“ Sherlock looks at John.  
  
“Yeah, quite a lot actually.“ John sits up and puts his feet on the floor. He stretches and gets up, too. He taps to the door, yawns and says, “Let’s go out. Grab something to eat. Bit of walking might... be nice.“  
  
Sherlock hears him slowly going to the bathroom. God, he has to be more careful. But that... felt good. He hadn’t been so close to John for such a long time. It was... intimate. He opens a window, suddenly it’s too warm in there. He wishes he could have a cigarette, smoke it in the cold air of the night, that would calm him down now, bring his thoughts and thoughts and thoughts to a halt.  
  
“Sherlock, come on.“ John stands in the door, wearing a fresh jumper, his coat in his hand.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
They find a kebab place nearby which is still open. As John wants to pay, he looks into his wallet and then, smiling, at Sherlock. “You have to pay. All my money went into the swearing jar and I haven’t been to a cashpoint yet.“ He seems to be amused about that. Sherlock does as he is told and even gives the man behind the counter quite a tip, that smile of John’s has been worth it.  
  
“Maybe that swearing jar thing isn’t such a bad idea after all, Sherlock.“ They walk down a small street on their way to Baker Street.  
  
“If it makes you pay for take-away...“ John grins, but then the look in his eyes changes. “See, the past weeks... _months_ actually... haven’t been easy and maybe it’s time I got my head up again. Just. You know. Leave it all behind.“  
  
Sherlock is more than a bit uncomfortable with this, usually John doesn’t talk about these things. Is he supposed to say something? Offer help? Pat his back? Why doesn’t Mycroft pop out of thin air for once? Even the most stupid thing his brother could want from him would be a nice distraction now. He looks at his phone. No text from Lestrade. What is even the use of all these people.  
  
“Sherlock, are you listening? Talking to you.“  
  
“I know. Thought so, too.“  
  
“What? What did you think?“  
  
“You. Having a hard time.“  
  
“Yeah. Right. Christ, forget about it. I’m getting better actually. Never mind.“  
  
Stupid, stupid, Sherlock hisses at himself in his head, so stupid! They walk the few remaining minutes on their way home in silence. In the flat, Sherlock murmurs something about work and vanishes into his room. He leaves John in the hallway, doesn’t look at him, but he can see John is both a bit frustrated and resignated. He hears him watch telly (crap, obviously) for another half hour, then John is in the bathroom and when he finally goes upstairs to his bedroom, Sherlock fetches a cigarette from inside the skull and smokes it by his open bedroom window.  
  
His phone pings.  
  
_Smoking in secrecy like a schoolboy, aren’t you, Sherlock.  
  
Shut up, Mycroft. -SH  
  
Caring is not an advantage.  
  
Fuck. Off. -SH  
  
That would be £5 then, or does this rule only apply to Dr Watson?  
  
What do you want. -SH  
  
To kindly advise you that, now that your flat mate has re-established your former housing habits, you just do not scare him away again.  
  
What was this caring is not an advantage crap about, then. -SH  
  
I just wanted to be sure I had your full attention. You are upset, Sherlock._  
  
Sherlock doesn’t want to know where this conversation is heading and switches off his phone. He pulls at the cigarette one last time, holds the smoke in his lungs as long as he can and exhales slowly. “Not like a schoolboy. That’s what _you_ do, Mycroft.“  
  
  
\---  
  
  
The next morning Sherlock wakes when he hears John humming in bathroom. _Humming_. John. That happens very rarely and indicates a good mood. Sherlock remembers the odd situation the night before. And John is still in a good mood? John leaves the bathroom. After a few minutes Sherlock’s curiosity becomes stronger than his misery and he gets up. He grabs a dressing gown (blanket only might not be appropriate) and walks towards the kitchen. John isn’t here. Right, no humming, either. A moment later, the door opens and John comes in.  
  
“Got us some breakfast from Speedy’s. And Mrs Hudson even had some milk. Fancy a cuppa?“  
  
Sherlock clears his throat and nods. He sits down while John lays the table. John talks about something. Sherlock stretches out his legs and wiggles his toes. John almost trips over his naked feet.  
  
“Sherlock, for f... _God’s_ sakes, mind your long limbs. I live here as well.“ Sherlock only grunts in response, still unsure about why John is _fine_ and _happy_ when the evening ended in awkward silence.  
  
“Maybe I should have found myself a less grumpy flatmate. You know, Sherlock, small talk over breakfast can actually be quite nice.“  
  
This alarmingly reminds Sherlock of his brother’s unasked intervention last night and in a rush he comes to the decision that _less grumpy_ apparently is required here to make John stay happy. He clears his throat, again, tries a smile and even says “Thank you, John”, as John hands him his cup of tea.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
John has grown accustomed to the swear jar. Despite that fact that the too-soon-too-small mug has been replaced by that old teapot with the broken beak (two-third filled already), John now has a lot more success in avoiding dangerous verbal territories. Sometimes, Sherlock thinks, it seems as if he actually enjoys being teased about not to swear, but made to pay when he does, though. Sherlock is more than a bit confused.  
  
Since John tries to swear less, Sherlock very much tries to be _less grumpy_ and more friendly. Could support John’s mood, actually. And prevent foolish ideas such as getting a new flat mate. (Sherlock is quite sure John didn’t really mean to move out – again – but just to play it safe, he does the best he can.) Foolish idea, Sherlock thinks one day as he actually should be thinking about some cold cases, it is a foolish thing and a foolish idea how much he enjoyed being close to John and how much he wants that again.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
One Sunday morning, John suggests a walk in Regent’s Park.  
  
“We could walk a bit and then find us a place to eat. It’s cool, but it’s sunny. Even looks as if spring is really starting with all these wee flowers.”  
  
“Well… walk?” But Sherlock doesn’t have any better suggestions. And actually he doesn’t mind a little walk that much.  
  
“Yeah. Could even walk up to Primrose Hill Park, it’s right next to Regent’s Park. Might take a while, though. Have you been there, Sherlock? You’ve got a really nice view from over there. You can sit on a bench. You can even smoke, if you have to.”  
  
And so they walk. John asks Sherlock to explain his deductions from the last case as he hasn’t put it on his blog yet and needs some more information. They walk and walk along the alleys, talking and not really minding the brave little daisies and primroses that are trying to defeat the last grip of winter. The walking feels good, Sherlock thinks, we should do this more often. This feels good. He casts a look at John, walking right beside him. His nose is a little red from the cool air, he is smiling about something Sherlock has just said. There are lines around his eyes from laughing. His arm brushes against Sherlock’s and he dips his head and laughs some more.  
  
When they reach the small hill in Primrose Hill Park, they find the benches all empty and sit down. The view over Regent’s Park and London is very nice indeed. As if the metropolis was situated in a huge garden scenery.  
  
An old man sits down next to them. (Why this bench? There are others! Can’t he see that?) John sits a little closer to Sherlock. And a little more, to give room for the old man. Very close. So close Sherlock’s heart goes faster. John’s thigh touches Sherlock’s. Sherlock can’t talk anymore. How can this be so difficult? He wants John close, but when he is, he can’t handle it.  
  
“Hey, what’s up? Sherlock? You alright?”  
  
“Just… thinking.”  
  
“Ah. See.”  
  
John isn’t very relaxed, either. Sherlock sees how he sprawls his finger and closes his fist again. He breathes a little too fast. Despite the chilly morning, he seems to be warm (hot actually – Oh shut up, Sherlock rants at himself). Sherlock would really love to smoke now, but he didn’t bring the cigarettes since he knows John doesn’t like it.  
  
“How ‘bout some food?”, he asks instead.  
  
“Fine.”  
  
  
\---  
  
  
“Hey, that walk was nice the other day, John. Fancy another one?”  
  
“Oh? Yeah, sure. Where do you want to go?”  
  
“Hm… , lets’s just walk around Marylebone for a while. See where it takes us. Take a cab home.”  
  
“Sounds fine.”  
  
They stroll around Marylebone for almost an hour, when a black limousine drives past them very slowly, coming to a halt a few metres in front of them.  
  
“Oh no. Your brother?” John sighs.  
  
“Probably. Want to try something new?”  
  
John looks at Sherlock questioningly.  
  
_“Run!”_  
  
Sherlock turns on his heels, dives around the next corner into a small street. He hears John running behind him, getting closer. (So much fitter than I am.) Around another corner. Sherlock looks back, he can’t see the black car. Fine. There is a garden, one of those private, closed ones, he speeds up and climbs over the wrought-iron fence. John is right beside him, out of breath, but smiling.  
  
“Come on!” This is starting to be fun.  
  
They cross the garden, rush through some shrubs (Sherlock almost loses his scarf), climb over the next fence and find themselves on a small square. Sherlock spies in all directions, still no car, good, and heads on to a house whose inhabitants carelessly left the door open (don’t these people know about burglars?), passes through a hallway, a living-room and out into the garden behind the house, another fence, a back yard, the back door of a restaurant and takes the stairs up to the first floor, just _hoping_ this will lead somewhere. They stop on top of the staircase, leaning on the wall of the hallway. Must be a hotel of some kind.  
  
“Sherlock”, John pants as he catches his breath, “you think we shook him off?”  
  
“Daresay he won’t come _running_ after us.” He laughs out loud. “Don’t know, really. But it was worth a try.”  
  
John laughs, too, then smiles at him.  
  
“You’re mad.”  
  
“Guess I am.”  
  
“Guess so too.”  
  
John still looks at him. Suddenly Sherlock is aware of too many things at once. John is so close again, his eyes look darker than normal, he can see his heartbeat in a vein on his throat, all strong and vulnerable at the same time, he sees how his tongue licks over his lower lip, he is still smiling, looking at him (what does this look mean?) and the atmosphere changes to something charged with electricity, a bit scaring, though, but the adrenaline pumping through his veins adds just the lacking boldness. Within the blink of an eye, he leans a bit closer towards John, hesitates, grows tense and relaxes again, about to move just a bit further. He can’t look anywhere but at John’s lips.  
  
A door opens. A group of tourists leave one of the rooms, a family, heavily packed with rucksacks and bags. When the family has passed them, the moment has passed, too. It feels odd.  
  
John takes a look at his watch.  
  
“We’d better… get home. Right?”  
  
  
\---  
  
  
From here, things go downhill. Mycroft does actually show up in 221b the next day, but if it was him in the black limousine the night before, he doesn’t say so. Sherlock deletes what Mycroft wanted the moment he leaves the flat. John is at work, takes an extra shift and watches a lot of telly. A case turns up, an annoying one, but Sherlock is grateful it keeps his mind at least a bit distracted. John is back to quite a temper and three or four days after their chase through Marylebone, he is having enough when Sherlock is running a new experiment involving specimen of human tongue in the kitchen.  
  
“Sherlock. Get this stuff. Out. Now. I want to have dinner.”  
  
“You can eat something on the sofa. Or in your chair.”  
  
“No, I can’t. I want to eat in the kitchen like a normal person –“  
  
“What’s that supposed to mean?”  
  
“It means I am done with you running _bloody_ experiments in the place where I want to _eat_!”  
  
“Five quid.”  
  
“I didn’t say anything about the thumbs, or the eyeballs, or the _godforsaken_ head, but right now, I am having enough. Get that bullshit out of here.”  
  
John gets louder.  
  
“Out. Fucking OUT NOW.”  
  
“Ten, fifteen, and twenty. Getting me closer to the dissecting table quite quickly, John.”  
  
Sherlock pushes the teapot over the table towards John.  
  
“I am not going to _fucking_ repeat this, Sherlock.” John radiates an air of dangerous energy.  
  
“And twentyfive.” Sherlock doesn’t really know why he is teasing John so badly, he knows he is destroying all the progress John has made (they have made?). “Go on and you don’t need the small notes anymore.”  
  
John explodes. He takes the teapot and throws it into Sherlock’s equipment. Unfortunately, the makers of that teapot didn’t pay much attention to its ballistic qualities. So apart from the fact that it is quite heavy, it is neither very aerodynamic nor very elegant in its flight. It does land on the petri dishes quite impressively, though, damaging most of them and scattering notes and coins all over the kitchen.  
  
Sherlock manages to get up before he gets hurt by glass shards splattering from the table and stares at John.  
  
John stares back. The shattering glass and the noise, the mere violence seems to give him a strange satisfaction. He breathes deeply. Inhales. Exhales. Inhales. Chokes. Coughs. Coughs some more. Coughs quite badly. Tears rise in his eyes as he coughs even more, carefully walking to cupboard, fetching a glass and getting some water.  
  
Sherlock is irritated. John drinks, his cough stills. He looks down on the floor.  
  
“Oh fuck.” Sherlock can hear the laughter in his voice. “I don’t even manage to be angry at you without making a fool of myself.”  
  
“You gave quite an impression of an angry man just now.”  
  
John slowly walks around the kitchen table, sipping on his water. He takes one of the broken petri dishes from the floor.  
  
“God, I’m sorry. What a mess we’ve gotten ourselves into.”  
  
“Huge mess.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
John moves closer. He puts both the petri dish and his glass of water on the table, then cups Sherlock’s head with his left hand, drawing him closer, and kisses him. Sherlock doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. John kisses him again. John’s lips are soft and warm and amazing. Sherlock inhales, carefully, through his nose. And kisses back.  
  
John touches his lower lip with his tongue. Sherlock opens his mouth in invitation and immediately feels he is melting into a boneless something. John. Kissing him.  
Sherlock manages to register some light steps on the floor, but he is too slow to react.  
  
“Whoo-hoooo! Boys!”  
  
Mrs Hudson opens the door. John and Sherlock let go of each other, cheeks pink, out of breath, and very much caught in the act. She must have heard the shouting and the clash and, oh God, she must have noticed everything, Sherlock thinks.  
  
“Oh, the kitchen….! What happened? Oh dear, oh dear… What is that, anyway? Looks like flesh? Oh, I don’t want to know. Sherlock, do clean that up!”  
  
“Yeah, Mrs Hudson, I’ll… I’ll help him.” John offers. “That… wasn’t Sherlock’s fault. Well, not completely. Right.”  
  
“Actually I wanted to bring you some of those shortbreads you like. They’re wonderful with some tea, you know.”  
  
“That’s very kind of you, Mrs Hudson. Thank you so much. If you’d leave us now… you see, we should really clean this up quite quickly.” Sherlock is grateful John manages to speak in proper sentences, something he is not capable of at that very moment.  
  
“Just tell me if you need something. I’ve got this soap downstairs, smells really lovely… Lavender, I think.”  
  
“Yes, thank you. That’s really nice of you.” John gently shoves her through the door (Sherlock can see she tries to hide a big grin) and closes it again. He sighs in relief. “Now that was more than… close, wasn’t it. Sherlock, we _should_ actually clean it up now. Those specimen drying everywhere in the kitchen might be a bit not good.”  
  
So they clean their mess and even disinfect all the surfaces the specimen were scattered upon. They talk a bit. Just a bit, Sherlock doesn’t quite know what to say. What does one say after kissing his flat mate? When they are almost done, John cuts his left hand on the last piece of petri dish he picks up.  
  
“Oh Sherlock, aaaah, cut myself. We’d better disinfect it. Could you help me?”  
  
“Sure, let’s go to the bathroom.”  
  
The cut is deeper than it first looked like, bleeding quite a bit, but John says that a bandage should do, no stitches required. John takes off his shirt (blood stained already), Sherlock cleans the wound, disinfects it and puts on the bandage the way John instructs him to do.  
  
“Ta. You’re doing that quite well, actually.” They are standing close, there isn’t much space between the tub and the basin. The atmosphere between them is charged again, Sherlock is badly distracted by John’s naked chest and the wonderful way he smells.  
  
“I’ve seen you put on bandages a number of times, you’ve even sewn me back together… guess I learned a bit.”  
  
He pauses. He has to do it. Wants it. He swallows his fear of doing things the wrong way, of _getting it all horribly wrong_ , dips his head and kisses John very softly. “Take me to bed, John“, he whispers.  
  
John pulls Sherlock closer, kissing him for real now. He seems to be hungry for him, and, oh God, he tastes amazing. Slightly out of breath, John withdraws, pulling Sherlock’s shirt open, messing with his cuffs until they are open and drags the shirt off him. Sherlock’s bare skin touches John’s as he kisses Sherlock again, slower this time, but no less intense.  
  
“Oh fuck, yes.“  
  
  
\---  
  
  
John slowly takes Sherlock into his bedroom. This is so _real_ , it’s John, John kissing him, undressing him, wanting him… Sherlock’s breathing goes even faster and all of a sudden, his limbs go a bit numb and his sight turns blurry. John pushes the door closed, Sherlock stumbles, his knees get weak and he has to lean onto the wall behind the door. He is breathing heavily, closes his eyes and rests his head on the wall. John kisses his neck and licks a thin line from his jaw to his collar bone, following a driplet of sweat, Sherlock realizes. His eyes stay shut, and all of his attention focuses on what he feels, as if all of his senses have gone oversensitive: John’s cool hush of breath against his moist skin, the traces of his kisses and his tongue, the smell of John’s hair – a mixture of shampoo and, and… something deeper, of purely _John_. Sherlock wants to get drunk on that smell, so familiar and yet, until now, so absolutely out of reach. John kisses the scar on Sherlock’s sternum, caresses it with his fingers, feather-light, then trails with his lips down his belly. He stops a few centimetres below Sherlock’s belly button. It takes Sherlock a couple of seconds to realize John has risen again, stands in front of him. Sherlock catches his breath and his eyes fly open. John looks at him, calm, focused and… determined.  
  
“Sherlock.”  
  
His voice is almost hoarse, rougher than normal, Sherlock has the feeling its rumble makes his whole body vibrate, like an earthquake shivering through the whole of London, through Baker Street, its epicentre standing right in front of him, messy blonde hair, pink lips and with a fucking determination to… yeah? What?  
  
“Sherlock, I _want_ you. More than anything. Ever. Come here.”  
  
John pulls him close and kisses him, fiercely, and as Sherlock realizes that fierceness, how much it is beyond just a casual mood of want, the blurriness is gone and his body feels as strong as if cocaine rushed through his veins. Sherlock is still over-aware of everything happening right now – John’s eyes fixed on him, his breath on Sherlock’s face, the heat radiating from John’s body, the delightful smell of him - and he catalogues every detail about John he senses.  
  
John touches Sherlock’s waistband and slides his fingers over the buckle of his belt.  
  
“That ok, Sherlock?“  
  
“Yes... please,“ Sherlock whispers between kisses. John opens the belt and his trousers and pulls them carefully down his thighs. His hand brushes over Sherlock’s pants, over his cock, and he suddenly realizes just _how_ hard he is. God, John must have noticed, too. Yeah. He did. Obviously.  
  
John licks his lips and opens his jeans, pulls them down and takes a step towards the bed. Sherlock watches him openly and amazed. John is quite muscular, he had guessed so, but what indeed surprises Sherlock is how beautiful John is. He is... perfect. Strong. Sherlock is stunned by the soft golden hair on John’s chest, by the shape and colour of his nipples (erect, as he notices), by the faint, silvery tissue of his scar, the pale rosy shade of his skin (are there goose-bumps?), his navel and the fine line of hair trailing down from there. Sherlock gazes at John’s pants. He is hard, too, well, of course, probably.  
  
“Come here, Sherlock. Need to touch you. Need to lie down.“ His voice is rough with desire and Sherlock obeys John’s words like a siren song, steps out of his trousers, following him to the bed. Stepping over pieces of clothing with half-closed eyes and his focus on anything but walking, Sherlock trips, stumbles slightly, just enough to lose a bit of balance and leaning into John. John steps backwards, then the bed is too close, and bumps onto the mattress. Sherlock tries to hold him and is pulled down instead.  
  
“Oh, we’re quite elegant, aren’t we, Sherlock.“ John huffs out a small laugh and kisses him as Sherlock lies on top of him. His hands wander along Sherlock’s back, up his neck to the back of his head. Sherlock is intensely aware of John’s cock pressed onto his stomach, he feels how hard and strong it is, feels the wetness soaking through the thin cotton of John’s pants. John starts to move his pelvis very slightly, taking up a hint of a lazy, rolling rhythm. Sherlock’s breath hitches and speeds up as John brushes his cock with his hips, and when John’s hand trails down, slides into his pants to touch his cock, he starts panting into John’s mouth.  
  
“Off. Get that off.“ John pulls his pants down and Sherlock feels incredibly naked and incredibly right at the same time.  
  
“Let me see you, Sherlock.“  
  
Sherlock rolls onto his side and John sits up.  
  
“Oh God, fuck, you’re so gorgeous. Look at you, Sherlock. Fuck, I want you so badly.“  
  
John gets rid of his own underwear and when their naked bodies realign, Sherlock feels like something great and immensely joyous happening to him, something he never quite believed in until now. With that joy, a wave of want and hunger for John rolls over him, as if he just realized John was both the reason and the trigger for this joy.  
  
The sensation of John’s cock against his own is overwhelming. John has taken up that slow, grinding roll of his hips again, moaning slightly.  
  
“I want your cock, Sherlock.“  
  
While being undressed by John and naked was a wild mixture of good and Oh God, being watched by John like this certainly exceeds everything Sherlock had ever imagined.  
  
“I want to touch you, Sherlock. I want to do things to you. I want to undo you. I want you feel every bit of pleasure your body is capable of.“  
  
Sherlock’s cock twitches as John caresses it, Sherlock closes his eyes and sinks into the cushions. John takes both of them in his hand, rubbing them with gentle pressure, slowly.  
  
“We’d just need... err...“, he says in a low voice.  
  
“Lube. Drawer.“  
  
Sherlock hears the drawer being opened and after a moment he feels the cool wetness on his penis. Then he feels John, moving and moving. His breathing accelerates, John is above him, kissing him, panting in his mouth. He feels John’s cock so hard against his own and certainly nothing has _ever_ has felt so mesmerizing. The way John moves his hips, fucking into his own hand, pushing again and again, arouses Sherlock madly.  
  
Sherlock loses track of time. Then he is close, so very, very close, oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God... He cries out John’s name and John kisses him, kisses him until he is shaken by the aftershocks.  
  
John pants harder, thrusts harder, and Sherlock knows he is about to come. He breaks up his kisses, “Fuck, Sherlock, oh God, holy fuck... Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, oh... my... God...“ and spends himself.  
  
Breathing heavily, glowing with the heat of his body, John lies on Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock strokes his back, his head, his shoulders. Writes invisible letters to him. All of them saying just _John_.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
Later on, when they are still in bed, skin and sheets still slightly damp, Sherlock kisses John’s chest, eyes closed. John looks at him, he can feel John’s gaze wander over him. John... wonders. What is he wondering about? Sherlock opens his eyes.  
  
“I... was a bit. Er, surprised, Sherlock. Earlier. About you. Having. Lube.“  
  
This does feel a bit weird, but not much. Sherlock is far too happy to really feel weird. He looks at John, questioningly.  
  
“So you do that, Sherlock? Wank?“  
  
“Well... yes. Sure.“  
  
“Regularly?“  
  
“Yeah.“ Sherlock pauses and then he adds, a bit under his breath, “At least since you moved in.“  
  
“Few weeks then.“  
  
“No, since you moved in _first_ , John.“  
  
“How d’you mean?“  
  
“Don’t know. Something about your presence, about you, obviously made me want to explore sexuality as a part of human relationships.“  
  
John seems to be taken aback.  
  
“So you hadn’t... before?“  
  
“Hadn’t what?“  
  
“Explored sexuality. On your own. With... others.“  
  
“Bit. But not with other people. Never was worth the effort... The... entanglement. That.“  
  
“And it... changed, when I. Moved in. God.“ John shakes his head. “When exactly?“  
  
“Don’t know. Soon. But not all at once. When I left, after Moriarty... I was quite sure.“  
  
“About what?“  
  
“You, John. About you.“  
  
John takes a deep breath. He opens his mouth as if to say something, then closes it again. Another deep breath.  
  
“You know, Sherlock, that I’m-not-gay-thing. - Oh, Christ, I’m crap at this.“  
  
John’s body is tense, all the post-orgasmic ease gone. He sits in bed, wrapped in Sherlock’s sheet, his elbows on his knees, feet on the mattress. He stretches out his left hand, clenches his fist. And sighs.  
“That’s not... _entirely_ true.“  
  
I can see that now, Sherlock thinks, but doesn’t say a word.  
  
“Always been... Always found men _interesting_ as well. But it’s the hard way to have it, you know. And I’ve seen what Harry had to deal with sometimes. Back in uni, there was this one guy who... well. Made out. With me. ‘Twas amazing, it really was. But that’s it.“  
  
Sherlock listens. He sinks into John’s voice which is slowly unraveling the mess they’ve been in for the past few years. John takes him apart, again, but with words this time. With his half-finished sentences, his pauses and sighs, each one a small struggle inside him.  
  
“And then I met _you_ , of all people. Do you have any idea how fucking gorgeous you are? - Yeah, know, five quid. Right. Later. - With your ridiculously _tight shirts_ , your _eyes_ , that _hair_. Your _mouth_. Nobody has lips like you. Sherlock. It takes more strength than I have not to fall for that. And you’re bloody brilliant, being Sherlock Holmes and all.“  
  
John rubs his hand over his face and clears his throat.  
  
“But most. Of all. You kept me from giving up, which I was about to do before I moved in here. About to give it all up. You saved me. More than once, as things went on.  
  
So... I couldn’t just mess around with you. Have a bit of meaningless sex. Can’t do that when you’re... in love. Right. So. ‘I’m not gay’ protected me. From myself. From wanting too much. From getting hurt. Didn’t have a clue how you felt. If you felt things like that at all. Too scared to find out. With you, bloody obviously married to your work.“  
  
“I do. Feel things that way.“  
  
“Yeah, know that by now.“ John laughs. “But I can’t really believe it. Just had sex with you. Told you, I love you, actually. Which I do. Madly so. Sherlock, I fucking love you. I love you. I can’t stop saying that. Fucking love you.“  
  
“John, this turns out to be a rather expensive day for you.“  
  
“Yeah. Screw it. It’s just the truth.“  
  
  
\---  
  
  
Sherlock cannot remember feeling this easy and... happy. He can’t really believe all of this, either. John waking up lying next to him in the morning. Kissing him. Loving him. Sherlock loves him, too. Of course he does.  
  
One of the following nights, Sherlock wakes up. His room is dark. John is spooning him, his face between Sherlock’s shoulder blades and his hands around his chest and belly. Sherlock lies in the dark for a long time. He feels John’s heart beat and feels his breath on his back. He can smell his skin and still tastes his kisses from just a few hours before. He takes his hand. He kisses it and whispers, „I love you, too, John. Love you, too.“  
  
“I know, love. Now sleep.“  
  
And Sherlock does.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
On one of the following mornings, when Sherlock gets out of bed, John watches him.  
  
“You have a surprisingly plush behind.“  
  
“I have a _what_?“  
  
“A surprisingly plush behind. Look at you. There’s no doubt about that. And I am just having it confirmed, as you walk around naked.“  
  
“And filthy, John, need a shower.“  
  
“I mean, I always knew.“  
  
“You knew?“  
  
“Sherlock, most of your trousers are so tight they don’t leave much room for interpretation. Still, I’m glad to have it confirmed. You have a surprisingly plush behind.“  
  
“What kind of expression is that anyway?“  
  
“Read it in a book. Could’ve said, you’ve got a fucking nice, round ass, but no, I didn’t. Wouldn’t even think of it. Swear jar’s working.“  
  
  
\---  
  
  
“Sherlock. When you brought up that swear jar thing, you said, I might be experiencing the first symptoms of gastric ulcer.“  
  
“Yes, there were clear indications. You seemed to be in pain when eating certain things, you -“  
  
“I’ve had it checked. At the clinic. Two weeks ago. You know, Robert, one of the doctors, he did a gastroscopy. Everything is fine. That pain might have been just stress-related.“  
  
“Oh. Good, then.“  
  
“You don’t seem surprised.“  
  
“Well... it got a lot better recently, didn’t it?“  
  
“Sherlock, did you make that up? In the first place? To trick me into agreeing to that swear jar?“  
  
“John, it is _your_ stomach. Certainly you know better than me what you’re feeling.” He sighs. And smirks. “Maybe a tiny bit. Well. You were so angry and unhappy. Had to do something about that.“  
  
“Oh Christ. You manipulative... whatever. Come here. I want a kiss.“  
  
  
\---  
  
  
It is almost unbelievable and yet, at the same time, the most natural and logical for Sherlock how easily closeness and sex have become part of their relationship, of their everyday life, of _them_. It isn’t much that changes and still the earth seems to spin in the opposite direction. Their physicality settles in gently. They touch each other more throughout the day (there are even times - rather frequently, actually - when they can’t keep their hands off each other at all), but what changes most is that there is a yet unknown lightness in their life. Sherlock still sulks at times. And during cases, he still doesn’t say a word for hours on end. He is srude, very rarely though. He watches John. A lot. Not only because he still isn’t finished cataloguing him - he still soaks in his every move, every change in the sound of his voice, the different shades of the blue of his irises, his freckles and the patterns his faint lines draw on his face - but also because he notices how much easier John is. He has stopped worrying, Sherlock realises. Very good. He finally did.  
  
Having sex and, most of all, having Sex with John, _regularly_ , actually, fascinates Sherlock endlessly. I had no idea, he thinks, I had _no_ idea. How could I not have had any idea for that bloody eternity my life was. Before.  
One day – they have just had some of last night’s left over Indian take away, John has just finished both cleaning the dishes and having a little dispute on why _bloody always_ he is doing these things (£5 went into the jar immediately) – Sherlock gives him a look quite different from his usual ones. When John recognizes it, Sherlock gives him his hand. “Bedroom, John. _Now_.“  
  
John follows him and into his bedroom, Sherlock starts undressing him without many words. He kisses him passionately and John kisses back, small moans in between. He unbuttons Sherlock’s shirt, opens his trousers and Sherlock drags him to their bed. Sherlock impatiently pulls down their pants and he lies on the bed. I have to say it, he thinks. God, this isn’t... easy. And he says it, his words not much more than a whisper: “John. I want it.“  
  
“What do you want, love?“  
  
“I want you to fuck me.“ Sherlock’s cheeks turn a bit more rosy than they already are.  
  
John bows down, kisses him.  
  
“Ok. We might need a bit of... preparation.“  
  
“I know. I read everything on that I could find.“  
  
John smiles, more to himself actually, and kisses Sherlock again. Sherlock is desperate for it, he wants to feel John that way, he wants to know what it is like, doing that, he isn’t sure if he has ever been this curious before.  
  
John is very gentle. As John touches Sherlock _there_ , Sherlock moans loudly, even though it’s not the first time John does that. When he, after a while, very carefully inserts a finger, and a second one, and hits his prostate, Sherlock is sure he won’t last much longer.  
  
“John, do it“, he pleads, his voice hoarse.  
  
John does. He moves in very slowly, giving Sherlock time to adjust.  
  
“That ok? You alright, love?“  
  
“Yes“, Sherlock pants. He moves his hips a tiny bit and John catches up on his slow rhythm.  
  
“God, Sherlock, you... Oh _God_ , fuck, you look amazing. Most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.“  
  
Sherlock hears John’s voice through a white noise, feels his heart beating as if it was to explode. His throat is dry, he is panting heavily. John is above him, eyes fixed on him, sweat glitters on his chest, he is _fucking_ him. He is. Fucking him. Moving slowly in and out, hitting that spot again and again and again and _again_ and Sherlock throws back his head, arches his back and comes heavily, spurting two, three, four times and then everything goes still.  
  
“Oh Sherlock, love, oh God, oh _God_...“, Sherlock hears John pant, feels the last deep thrusts as John reaches his climax. John collapses over him, sinks into his chest, breathing heavily and still murmuring his name, like some sacred incantation.  
  
After a few minutes, when their heart rates and breathing have steadied a bit, John pulls the blanket over them. He touches Sherlock’s cheeks with his thumb. They are wet.  
  
“Sherlock, are you ok?“, he whispers. He kisses his wet cheeks.  
  
“Yeah. Yeah. Sure. Better than ok, _so much_ better. Than ok. John.“  
  
Sherlock smiles, high on endorphines and John. “So. Much. Better.“  
  
  
\---  
  
  
“So, it is indeed very obvious if you know what to look for.” Sherlock finishes his explanation on how it actually _was_ the gardener, this time. John dips his head to hide his wide grin and says, “Bloody amazing.”  
  
Earlier that day, in the morning, John got up from Sherlock’s bed, which was a mess of sheets and limbs. Sherlock was still fast asleep, naked, and looking utterly young. John kissed his forehead, and then his mouth. He sneaked into the bathroom, went to the loo, then took a shower and shaved. Before going upstairs to get some fresh clothes from his wardrobe, he peaked into Sherlock’s bedroom again. He was still sleeping, lying in bed exactly as he left him there. When John was dressed, he scribbled a note on a piece of paper.  
  
_Sherlock, I’m at the clinic. Be back at 5._  
  
He hesitated. Then he added,  
  
_I hate to go.  
J_  
  
When Sherlock woke up, John’s absence was the first thing he noticed. He grabbed the pillow John had slept on and stuffed it under his head, poking his nose deep into it and inhaled every remaining particle of John’s smell.  
  
Lestrade gave him a call around lunchtime, asking for help on a small fraud case, Sherlock didn’t even have to leave the flat to solve it. When Lestrade called again a few minutes after they had just hung up, Sherlock wouldn’t answer the phone first, deciding that Lestrade really should find the answers to the remaining questions himself. But Lestrade called eight more times, and when Sherlock finally spat a “Yes?” into his mobile, it was urgent. Very urgent. Triple homicide, a fourth person missing in Kentish Town. While taking a cab to the place where the three bodies had been found, he texted John.  
  
_John, NOW. 25, Caversham Rd. –SH_  
  
After three endless minutes, John replied.  
  
_Managed to make Sarah take the rest of my shift. We have to invite her for dinner sometime. Be there in 20._  
  
It was one of the good cases: Thrilling, complex, but after all clues had been examined, easy to solve. It came with a chase along Regent’s Canal, too, and Sherlock succeeded in stunning the whole Yard team with his deductions. So when he comes to an end with his explanation, both John and him are still high on adrenaline, but not exhausted. Lestrade is asking some more questions, but Sherlock doesn’t answer. “We have to go. John. Now.”  
  
The cab ride merely takes a few minutes and Sherlock doesn’t talk. He looks out of the window, hands the cabbie way too much money and heads towards the entrance door of 221b (which makes John sort out things with the cabbie. “Ah, that was a mistake. Bit too much, right? I’ll take the change”). John follows and Sherlock is already upstairs. “John”, he calls him. Sounding somewhat desperate. How can someone take so long to get up some stairs? Hurry, John. When John enters the hallway, Sherlock pulls him close, kisses him breathlessly and slowly pushes him against the wall. “Do that thing you did yesterday. But again. And harder.”  
  
  
\---

  
  


Later on, John is already asleep right next to him, Sherlock is awake. After a while, he gets up and goes to the window of his sleeping room. He opens it and inhales the cool night air. His phone pings with an incoming text.  
  
_Brother dear. No cigarette tonight?  
  
No. Mind your own business. –SH  
  
I can see you have taken my advice then, Sherlock.  
  
What advice. –SH  
  
To make John Watson stay with you.  
  
Yes, Mycroft, although I do not consider it acting upon your advice. –SH  
  
All the best to you.  
  
Don’t make fun of me, Mycroft. –SH  
  
I do not. Good night, Sherlock._  
  
Sherlock sighs. Well. Mycroft. After all.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
One warm May morning, over breakfast, John asks, “Sherlock. About that dissecting table. You really want that thing?”  
  
“Well, we could put it in your bedroom, you don’t seem to need it anymore.”  
  
“Oh, shut up.” John laughs.  
  
“I actually thought we could get something we both like”, Sherlock offers.  
  
“How much money do we have then? Did you count it?”  
  
“The six months are still on, John, I think, it’s only been two since we started.”  
  
“But I’ve gotten _a lot_ better.”  
  
“Yes. Except when we have sex.”  
  
“Right. Maybe I get a discount?”  
  
“Maybe. But I think we’d have to run some further studies on how much you swear exactly during sex.”  
  
“Anytime, Sherlock.”  
  
  
\---  
  
  
In the afternoon, as John is just having a shower, Sherlock is standing at the living room windows, playing his violin. John has opened the windows earlier.  
  
\- “The air is wonderful outside. There are even birds singing. You hear that, Sherlock? Birds. On Baker Street.“  
  
Sherlock had flung his arms around him from behind, they traveled over John’s body, touching him.  
  
“God... Sherlock...“, John moaned low, “Windows are open. Let’s take this somewhere else.“ -  
  
Just as a silver car stops in front if the house, Sherlock hears the front door of 221b close. Lestrade gets out the car.  
  
“Hello, Mrs Hudson.“  
  
“Ah, Mr Lestrade! How nice to see you! Are you coming for Sherlock and John? They’re in. Think I’ve heard them earlier.“  
  
Sherlock puts down his violin and takes one more step to the window. _What_ did she hear.  
  
“Yeah, right. Thanks, Mrs Hudson.“  
  
Lestrade hesitates.  
  
“Mrs Hudson, one question... Bit personal actually.“ Lestrade clears his throat and Mrs Hudson leans a little closer towards him.  
  
“Did those two finally work it out?“  
  
“How do you mean, Mr Lestrade? ... Ooooh... Yes.“ She smiles and Sherlock hears the pride in her voice.  
  
“Good, I started to think they never would. With John getting married and all.“ He sighs with relief.  
  
“How can you say such a thing! _Of course_ they would. Just needed a bit of time, those boys.“  
  
Sherlock shakes his head and murmurs to himself, “God, I must be dreaming.“  
  
“Hey Sherlock, what did you say?“  
  
John comes into the living room and slowly walks over to Sherlock, stark naked except for a towel. Which he uses to dry his hair right now.  
  
“Get dressed, John. Case. Lestrade is just coming.“ He smiles and kisses him.


End file.
